


The Super-Palate (Tony Introduces Steve to Fine Dining)

by Bandanamonkey



Series: Happy Steve Bingo [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort Food, Domestic Avengers, Family Dinners, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Food, Humor, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 12:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15930524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bandanamonkey/pseuds/Bandanamonkey
Summary: "Tony would be the first to admit that Steve "Garbage Disposal" Rogers was an absolute uncultured mess when it came to food. Those sandwiches Steve was shoveling into his mouth? Baloney sandwiches on plain white bread."orTony notices that Steve has no discretion when it comes to what he puts in his stomach, so he tries to introduce Steve to fine dining. Will he finally discover what food makes his boyfriend happy?





	The Super-Palate (Tony Introduces Steve to Fine Dining)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "food" square on my Happy Steve Bingo card.  
> Rated for language and brief discussion of sex.

Tony loved Steve. He’d shout it to the heavens if that’s what it took. Steve, who would honest-to-God help little old ladies cross the street, who would draw Tony little doodles of C-3PO that reminded Tony to eat, _Steve Rogers_ who had no compunctions about killing enemies with a shield. Yeah, Tony loved his Steve.

But Tony would also be the first to admit that Steve- _Garbage Disposal_ -Rogers was an absolute uncultured mess when it came to food. A year ago, when they’d first gotten together, Tony’s heart-eyes had been so big that he’d been blinded to Steve’s very obvious flaw. It was about six months into their relationship that he began to notice that those sandwiches Steve was shoveling into his mouth? Those were baloney sandwiches. And barely even sandwiches, at that: just two pieces of plain white bread with a stack of baloney shoved in between. Tony had gone out of his way to have some mortadella shipped in from Italy, but Steve had just shrugged and continued eating his machine-made Oscar Mayer meat product.

And it wasn’t that Steve was unaware of other food. He’d happily eat damn near anything that was set in front of him, from Sam’s fish ’n chips to Bruce’s curry, without blinking an eye. Barnes was much the same, except when someone attempted to serve him pancakes or potato latkes made with boxed batter, in which case he’d pin them down with Resting Murder Face for at least a week.

Currently, about half of the team was scattered around the kitchen and the living room and eating Tony’s _Linguine Vongole_. Steve was dutifully shoving the homemade pasta and clams into his mouth with the same innocent enthusiasm he’d eaten Kraft mac ’n cheese just a few days before. Tony watched, lips parted in awe, as his Nonna’s signature dish was plowed through with total abandon.

Steve’s stupid Siberian Husky, Kilroy, was seated next to his chair. Tony knew his Nonna was spinning in her grave when Steve gave the dog a few bits of pasta before turning back to inhale the rest of it.

“The food ain’t gonna run away, punkass,” Barnes teased Steve from across the table. He’d opted out of the clams and was enjoying his own heaping bowl of pasta with a metric fuckton of parmesan cheese dumped on top.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam fired back from where he was seated on the far side of the living room. How he had even heard Barnes’ comment was a mystery, but Tony had long ago understood that those two would move heaven and Earth in order to snark at one another.

“Leave him alone,” Natasha said, ruffling Steve’s hair so it flopped down into his eyes. “He’s a growing boy.”

Tony tuned them out and ate a few clams of his own, watching silently as Steve finished his second bowl of pasta. Steve glanced around the table, stole a heaping forkful of Barnes’ food and slurped it down, then leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. He’d be full for about thirty minutes.

“You liked it?” Tony asked, and dammit if that wasn’t the most asinine thing he’d ever said.

“It was great, Tony,” Steve answered with that big puppy-dog smile. “Thanks.”

No. No no no, not okay, because that was the _exact same thing_ Steve had said after eating Natasha’s borscht. It was the same thing Steve had said when Thor had made some sort of Asgardian gumbo. It was the same _fucking_ thing Steve had said when Clint had microwaved a Hot Pocket for him. Tony was offended and baffled; he needed to figure out what was going on. He pulled out his phone and placed a reservation.

This required more data.

###

The restaurant was the absolute height of pretension: jackets and ties required, snooty staff, ridiculous cocktails, odd decor. Tony had grown up with this sort of nonsense so he put on his best Tony Stark Face and made sure to wear sunglasses indoors, because if the employees thought they could outdo him in sheer douchebaggery, they had another thing coming.

The reason he was here with Steve was because despite the aforementioned issues, it was some of the best fine dining Tony’d had New York. So it had taken a few steamy nights of Tony enjoying a very different sort of fine dining before he’d convinced Steve to dress up and accompany him here. Now that they were seated, he could get down to business in order to discover what was going on with Steve’s palate.

“I don’t know what any of this is,” Steve said as he glared down at the menu. He had the same stubborn look on his face that he did before tackling an enemy and when he glanced around the restaurant, Tony knew he was strategizing a way out.

“It’s a new experience. It’s good for you,” Tony soothed. “You’ll love the food; just put up with the environment for a few hours.”

“I don’t like it.” Steve shifted around and tugged at his tie. “I don’t understand why we can’t stay home and eat something there. I coulda just made a sandwich.”

Tony took a deep breath and pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead. He wanted to lecture Steve on the concept of fine dining, but the look on the big guy’s face stopped him: Steve was beginning to get stubborn, and if Tony didn’t play this right, they would be walking out of this restaurant in _seconds_.

“Look, I just wanted to share this with you,” Tony said, reaching a hand across the table. “I love the food here and I think it’ll make you happy. Besides, we had a deal: I’ve been eating your a—”

“Okay!” Steve interrupted, a dark flush clear on his face despite the low lighting. “Alright, Tony, yeah. Sorry. Why don’t you order for the both of us and I’ll just eat whatever you get for me.”

Tony nodded and pretended to look back down at the menu, but inwardly he was throwing a party for himself. He felt bad for manipulating Steve, but it was for his own good: Once Tony figured out what Steve actually loved to eat, he could have his chef come in and treat Steve to tailor-made meals every single day. Steve would be happy, Tony would understand what was going on, and the team could have the leftovers. Everyone won in the end.

The waiter approached and Tony placed the order with ease. They’d have to stagger a few different entrees, but they had all night and Steve’s stomach was a black hole. It would be worth it in order to get a real variety of different flavors dancing across Steve’s tongue.

They made small talk as they waited for the first round of dishes, Steve praising Tony’s work on Barnes’ arm upgrade (“ _Yeah, well, we can’t have Robocop walking around with his arm glitching out. He might ‘accidentally_ ’ _strangle Wilson._ ”) and Tony complaining about his upcoming stockholders’ meeting in London. They just began to discuss Steve’s latest foray into pop culture, Pulp Fiction ( _“It’s violent but not too realistic? No, you’ll like it, it’s good. Actually, maybe you should start with Inglorious Basterds, that might be more your speed. Barnes’ll love it._ ”), when their appetizer was delivered.

It only took a moment before Steve’s pretty face morphed back into the same expression that Tony had seen when he had decided to play Risk against the greatest tactician in history (Terrible idea. Tony had paid for all the times he’d beaten Steve at Monopoly). Steve was strategizing and his plan was going to be extremely effective. Tony needed to calm him down.

“I know it looks weird—“

“These are the treats I give to Kilroy. I get them at the pet store for five dollars.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep, deep breath. He hated that dumb dog. “No they’re not,” he said slowly.

Steve crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna eat bones, Tony.”

“You don’t—It’s not _bone_. Jesus Christ.” Tony grabbed one of the pieces off of the plate and set it onto his own appetizer dish. He used a flat knife to scoop out a bit of the gelatinous bone marrow and spread it onto the toasted bread, then held it up. “See? Marrow. It’s delicious.”

Steve’s flattened his plush lips and stared over at Tony for a few long seconds, then grabbed his own piece and copied what Tony had done. He frowned down at the crust of bread dubiously, hummed, then shoved the whole thing into his mouth with steely determination.

Tony took a rather more delicate bite of his own toast and savored the rich, gamey flavor of the marrow. He grinned over at Steve, who was still chewing with a thoughtful look on his face. “So?” he prompted.

After another moment of chewing, Steve swallowed, took a hearty swig of his wine, and said, “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Tony repeated. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I like it. It’s good.” Steve went back in for another bit and Tony just sat there, blinking. At last he flipped his sunglasses back down and leaned back in his chair to evaluate the situation.

Steve was uncomfortable in the restaurant, that much was obvious. He probably had about a hundred different plans ready to get the hell out of there if Tony didn’t keep gentling him. But despite all of that, and his initial reaction to the appearance of food, he didn’t seem to care much about the taste. It went in the “good” category alongside Cheetos and falafel and sushi.

Alright. Well, that was precisely why Tony had ordered two polarizing main courses for Steve. Maybe Steve could shrug off the bone marrow, but there was no way he wouldn’t have something to say about the duck. Duck confit was a classic dish, but the richness of it would surely warrant some sort of reaction, right? And it that failed, the squid ink pasta would have to do the job.

But the night went on and there was nothing. Dismayed, Tony kept ordering more and more rich menu items, but Steve seemed impervious to the food’s deliberate assault on his tastebuds. At the last “It’s good!”, Tony threw in the towel and told the server to charge everything to his account.

“Give yourself a seventy percent tip,” Tony said, shoving his chair back and tossing his napkin onto the table. “Come on, Steve. Let’s get out of here.”

Tony had been defeated. Not one damn thing they’d eaten had elicited a tangible reaction from Steve. In fact, the only thing that had made Steve’s nose wrinkle was the atmosphere of the restaurant itself. Once they slid into Tony’s car, Steve had already stripped off his jacket and tie and now he was kicking his shoes off.

“Gosh, so formal,” Steve muttered. “Felt like if I used the wrong fork someone was gonna come out and rap my knuckles with a ruler.”

“You used the wrong fork the entire time,” Tony sighed, letting his head fall back onto the seat so he could stare up at the roof of the car and contemplate life.

Steve shrugged and gave Tony one of his patented aw-shucks grins. “Maybe there’s a benefit to the whole celebrity thing. Don’t think anyone else coulda sat with their feet up on the table, either.”

Tony had kicked his feet up on the table and tilted back in his chair at about the midway point, sometime around the veal. The server had looked like he was going to say something, but then he’d snapped his mouth shut and scurried off.

They arrived home and made it into the communal living area, Steve now with bare feet and just wearing an undershirt and his slacks. Once the elevator doors opened, they were greeted by the rich smell of food and Steve gravitated over to the kitchen.

“Hey shithead; hey Stevie,” Barnes called out. “You two disappeared so we saved you some soup. Sittin’ on the stove if you want some.”

Tony just sighed and watched as Steve ladled the rest of the soup into a huge mixing bowl. Matzo ball, it looked like, and just the sight of it made Tony’s overfull stomach clench.

“Thanks but no thanks, Barnes,” Tony said, flopping into a chair at the table. He propped his chin up with one hand and watched as Steve scooped some of the soup and a piece of the matzo into his mouth. And that’s when it happened: Steve’s eyes lit up, his back straightening as a huge smile blossomed on his face. He hummed and brought the bowl up to his mouth and began shovel it down.

“I finally remembered my ma’s recipe,” Barnes said as he stepped into the kitchen. “Still not perfect, but damn close. Not bad, huh, Stevie? Takes you right back.”

Steve stopped eating for a second so he could smile over at Barnes, his eyes shining bright under the fluorescent light of the kitchen. “This is _great_ , Bucky! Gosh, I feel like we just got home from school. It was such a treat when your ma could scrape together enough money for this. Oh, and remember my mother’s cottage pies?”

_Oh._

Tony leapt out of his seat and grabbed Barnes by the arm (the flesh one; he wasn’t suicidal). “Terminator.”

Barnes had just stolen a chunk of Steve’s matzo ball and he shoved it onto his mouth.“Uh-huh,” he said through the food.

“You have zero manners. Listen, do have any more of those recipes knocking around that empty head of yours?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Barnes leveled Tony with an unimpressed look. “Why?”

“How would you feel about teaching me how to make them?” Tony asked, fixated on Steve’s beautiful, beaming face as Barnes grudgingly agreed.

Steve’s palate didn’t matter; what mattered was keeping that smile on his face. And if it took dealing with Barnes and learning recipes from long-dead women from the 1940s, that’s what Tony would do.

Giving Steve a taste of home would be worth it.


End file.
